


immutable

by coffee-in-bed (littlemel)



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/coffee-in-bed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They shared this bed, once or twice when the nights were long or cold or lonely, and more than a few times when they had no excuse other than simply <i>wanting</i>, but that was always reason enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	immutable

**Author's Note:**

> Sweets for my sweet kateez, who sent me candy and tea upon her triumphant return to LJ land.

Ioan stays at Matthew's whenever he's in London, in the house that used to be half-his and is now Matthew's alone, but where he still and always feels at home. Ioan's bed is still in his old room, the duvet a little dusty and faded, a pale rectangle on the wall above it where his Welsh flag once hung.

They drink cheap beer in the dark kitchen, Matthew leaning back against the sink and Ioan sitting on the countertop swinging his feet, talking too much about things that don't matter and not enough about things that do, both of them doing the best they can to rewind time that only moves stubbornly forward.

He lies awake long after he's sobered up, fighting off a headache and counting the cracks in the ceiling, the house sighing and groaning as it settles around him. Matthew's breathing is faint and familiar from the next room, but Ioan can tell from the rhythm of it that Matthew's not asleep either, and wonders.

They shared this bed, once or twice when the nights were long or cold or lonely, and more than a few times when they had no excuse other than simply _wanting_ , but that was always reason enough.

Ioan remembers the first time, twelve summers ago in their first tiny flat, Matthew so homesick and miserable he was ready to pack his bags and go back to Cardiff when Ioan kissed him, pressed him back against the wall and asked him to stay with his hands and mouth and frantic whispered words. It was clumsy and careless, edged with teeth and desperation, but Matthew was still there in the morning.

The blue shadows slide into black when Matthew appears in the doorway, and Ioan's gaze shifts from the ceiling to Matthew's face. "Can't sleep?" he asks, and Matthew shakes his head.

"I was too drunk earlier, and now I'm too sober." His laugh is a short, hoarse bark of a sound, and he rubs at his throat with his hand, wincing. "You?"

"Same." Ioan smiles into the darkness. "Mostly."

The clock on the bedside table ticks loudly, and Ioan counts eleven, twelve, unlucky thirteen before he pushes up on his elbows and draws back the duvet. Matthew slips under quietly, kisses him with hunger and without apology. The way they move together is all muscle memory and remembered choreography.

*

It's still mostly dark when the alarm goes off at six but Ioan's hardly slept at all, nothing more than catnaps and brief dreamy dozes. Matthew, stretched out half on top of him, curses and slaps at the clock until it stops ringing. He turns his face into Ioan's neck, grumbling in protest and slinging his arm over Ioan's belly.

They lay like this in the grey light of dawn, Ioan's head aching and Matthew drifting in and out of sleep, unmoving and unwilling to move until the alarm sounds again. Ioan sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face; he's sweat-sticky where Matthew was pressed against him, stiff and sore from being tangled up with him all night.

He runs the shower far too hot, watching his reflection smear into a vague ghost as the mirror glass fogs, and hisses when the water hits his skin, his throbbing temples and the knotted muscles in his shoulders. He stays in with his face tipped to the needling spray, his hands braced on the slick tile, until he can't breathe for the steam.

*

Matthew's in the kitchen when Ioan comes in, hunched over the counter with his head propped on his hand, yawning and watching the coffeepot. "Time's your flight?" he asks, morning-voiced and sleep-rumpled, the crease of the pillowcase still imprinted on the side of his face.

"Nine."

The heat clangs as it comes on, smelling of scorched dust, and Matthew hooks his chin over Ioan's shoulder, scratchy through his tee. "Take a later one."

"I can't." Ioan smiles as he reaches up and back to curve his hand over Matthew's rough cheek. "I need to get-" he stops, his thumb finding Matthew's heartbeat under his jaw, steady and slow. To say _home_ seems somehow dismissive; cruel, and he can't do it. "Back."  
  
Matthew's pulse skitters. "You need to get home," he says pointedly, ducking out of Ioan's touch and disappearing around the corner. Ioan closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck with the hand that had been resting on Matthew's face, his palm stinging. He hears Matthew's bedroom door close a moment later, not with a slam but a gentle click, and that's almost worse.

*

Ioan's suitcase bumps against his leg as he drags it down the hall; he leaves it around the corner, out of sight, when he steps into the kitchen. Matthew's leaning back against the sink again, same as the night before except for the coffee cup in his hand. He still looks tired.

"No need to walk me out," Ioan says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He forces a smile that Matthew doesn't return, but he nods, and this is the part that never gets easier, the creak of the door as it closes behind him and Matthew's silhouette in the window, behind the drawn curtains.

It's always like this, in the end, the stilted silences and neither of them saying what they should. He'll phone when he lands in Los Angeles and they'll say their good-byes then; twelve hours and an ocean between them, empty promises that next time it'll be different.


End file.
